


A boy and his dog

by Bluemoonflower



Category: Robin of Sherwood
Genre: Angst, Animal Abuse, Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Domestic Violence, Drama, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Melodrama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 21:35:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8261155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluemoonflower/pseuds/Bluemoonflower
Summary: A chapter from Guy of Gisburne's abusive childhood, as told by the different victims.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I hereby apologise for the awfulness of this story.  
> Please read the tags before proceeding!!!

 

_**‘Bless me, mon père, for I have sinned. It has been six weeks since my last confession.’**_  
_**‘Speak, my child.’**_  
_**‘It was a mistake. I should have known. But I couldn’t resist. The desire was too strong.’**_  
_**‘What is this mistake you speak of?’**_  
_**‘The dog, mon père, the dog…’**_  
  


  

**Margaret  
\--------**

It’s glacial when I walk down to the courtyard. December has been bitter cold, too cold even for snow, and the new year has started along the same lines. The frost has made the stones under my feet slippery, but it does not affect the lightness of my tread. For no matter how cold the weather might be, the Grange and the surrounding estate feel warm and welcoming to me. As they always do, when Edmund is away.

My husband left for York just before the start of Christmastime. Officially with the intention of visiting relatives and feasting with them. But I know he has another woman over there. I can always tell when there is a new one. The weeks before he conquers the object of his desire, Edmund gets restless, walking around the Grange with a feverish glint in his dark eyes. His insults at my address become more frequent, but are uttered with less zeal, and apart from a careless slap now and again, the physical brutalities all but come to a halt. Edmund’s mind is elsewhere, his frustration towards me is lower. The only thing he wants from me is the readiness of my body. He takes me to bed two, sometimes three times a day, and when I lie underneath him, I can almost imagine what it must be like to be loved by a man like him. Or to be favoured by him at least. I don’t think Edmund is really capable of love. But at times like these, he is nearly tender and I know it’s because he’s picturing the woman he fancies. I picture her as well. In my mind I take her hands and kiss them, thankful for the few weeks of solace she has bought me.

This time, the lady in question seems to please Edmund particularly well, for on the 2nd of January Couvreur received a letter from him stating he would travel from York straight down to London, without stopping over at the Grange. When I heard the news I had to bite my tongue not to cry out with joy, and Couvreur must have noticed the sparkle in my eyes and the flush of my cheeks. But I didn’t care. Four more weeks of freedom! And in the month of January too, which is traditionally a bad one for Guy and me. We are truly spoilt this year.

As I walk across the courtyard, I glance upwards and see Couvreur leering at me from one of the narrow windows. Right-hand man and steward to my husband, he is left in charge whenever Edmund is away. Normally that authority would befall me, the lady of the household. But I have been stripped of all my rights in Gisburne Grange a long time ago. 

When I meet his eyes, Couvreur steps back into the shadows. For he has another duty as well. He watches me. Waiting for the slightest moment of weakness. A careless word, a meaningful look, a scarlet letter scribbled down on a piece of parchment… I scoff disdainfuly. After ten years, my husband still hopes to uncover the truth. But he’ll never know. Never. The truth will accompany me into the grave, where it will lie still with me, embracing me for all eternity. 

I would like to say my silence is purely out of concern for others. Sin has a way of spreading, you see, of infiltrating into the fabric of reality like a poisonous stain. It impacts many more than only the sinners themselves. And so one must be careful not to allow it to go any farther. But apart from this altruistic motive, I admit there is an element of vanity to my silence as well. A part of me that takes great pleasure in keeping from Edmund the one thing he wants to know more than anything. To be able to wield at least some power over him, however small. That in itself is sinful, I know. But God knows I’ve paid the price for this last morcel of pride. And then some…

‘Mother, mother, look what I got!’ 

I smile when I see my son running towards me, his cheeks bright red with the cold. Guy is usually such a silent, solemn little boy. But the time without Edmund has done him a world of good. Every passing day I see him coming out of his shell a little bit more.

Guy looks up at me, his eyes glowing with excitement. I notice he is carrying something in his arms. ‘Albert gave it to me. It’s mother has no milk for it. Can I keep it?’

With the clumsy sort of carefulness a child wields, he opens the bundle of cloth. A tiny ball of black fur appears, curled up between the cloth and Guy’s chest. The puppy’s eyes are still closed. Clearly the runt of the litter, too weak to even whimper or yelp, and destined to find a gloomy end in a bucket of cold water.

‘I’ll take good care of it,’ Guy pleads. ‘I promise. Can I keep it, mother? Please?’

I should say no, of course. This can only end in tears. Plus it’s a black dog, and those are notoriuosly bad luck. Some people even say they’re creatures of the devil. But the puppy is so small, so utterly helpless. And Guy is looking so hopeful, happy almost. I just can’t do it. Not today.

‘Oh, all right then,’ I sigh. ‘You may keep it.’ 

My son’s smile convinces me I’ve made the right choice. Guy is fond of animals, just like my father always was, and I consider this a quality worthy of being developed. Maybe the puppy will provide a good opportunity to teach him something about responsibility. His education is a constant worry for me. Ten years old, and he still hasn’t been sent away to become a page. At his age, other boys are serving in a big household. They wait on their master, learning manners and courtly etiquette, and get their first combat training with blunt weapons to prepare them for the time when they become squires and have to accompany their knight into battle.

But Edmund has decided Guy has to stay here and wait on _him_. Consequently, he learns nothing. The only thing he gets is a taste of Edmund’s crass manners and a blow to the head whenever he spills a cup of wine. Physical training is completely non-existant. Three years Guy is lagging now. Three years of insults, violence and unbelievable humiliations he could have escaped from had he left when he was supposed to. 

I tried to talk to Edmund about it. I even succeeded in doing so without my voice trembling, an accomplishment I am still proud of today. I explained it was highly unusual for a boy to stay in his own house for page duty. That this only happened amongst the highest nobility, and even then it was very uncommon. But Edmund just laughed and sneered that Guy wasn’t in his _own_ house, now was he? So he could just as well stay here and serve him.

I try to fill in the gaps and teach Guy what I can whenever I can: reading, writing, some basic etiquette. When Edmund is away and we are allowed to have music, we even dance together, something Guy enjoys a great deal. But I’m a woman. It’s not the same. I can’t give him all the details a knight needs to know. Nor can I help with the physical excercise, of course.

Standing by and watching as my son’s chances in life are squandered is nigh on insupportable. But Edmund’s wishes are not discarded lightly.

I fear him so…

Luckily our stable master has taken Guy under his wing. Albert came with me from my father’s estate when I married Edmund. As a little girl, he was the one who taught me how to ride, and now he is teaching Guy. He tells me the boy has a natural way with horses, and again I’m reminded of my father… 

Albert knows I worry. He tries to reassure me, telling me Guy’s combat training can be caught up. And I know the courtly manners can be as well.

But what about the connections? The contacts between the noble boys that serve as pages together, thus forging friendships for life? Those, I fear, will be lost forever…

All this runs through my mind as I see my son beaming at me, the puppy tightly in his arms.

‘Thank you, Mother,’ he smiles.

His enthusiasm suddenly worries me a little. ‘Mind you,’ I warn him. ‘It will be a lot of work rearing up such a young puppy. You’ll have to feed it every couple of hours and keep it warm the whole time. And even if you manage all that, it may still die.’

‘I won’t let it die, mother,’ he says, a grave expression on his face. ‘I vow it.’

I suppress a smile. Apparently the Arthurian legends I use for his reading practice seem to appeal to him, at least. I give him some further instructions on how to care for the little thing, which he takes in with mature, earnest nods and then watch him turn into a child again as he cheerfully runs off towards the house with his new friend.

I tell myself I will keep an eye on them, helping where I can, for Guy will surely be sad if the little dog should die. But, much to my pride and surprise, my son doesn’t need any help at all. Over the next couple of days I witness how he cares for the little ball of wool, fussing over it and encouraging it to eat. He keeps the dog close to his chest at all times, in his tunic, and even manages to improve the technique of giving it milk via his finger by doings so with an end of cloth instead, thus giving the puppy more food in one go.

‘Shtt,’ I caution him, two weeks later, during Mass. The puppy’s whimpers ring through the chapel.

‘Sorry, mother. He’s hungry.’ The little dog is chewing on the fabric of Guy’s tunic, it’s floppy black ears turning in all directions, eyes full of mischief.

I can’t help but smile. ‘He’s getting big,’ I whisper back.

Guy nods, his eyes gleaming with pride. ‘He’s started eating meat already!’

In the front of the chapel, Father Henry turns around and looks at us beratingly. We bow our head, but when he turns his attention back to the big cross, I look at Guy out of the corner of my eyes and wink, which makes him snigger.

‘I think we can safely give him a name now,’ I whisper, motioning at the dog. ‘He’s clearly out of the woods.’

The puppy proves this by squirming to be put down, playfully snapping at Guy’s fingers.

‘What should we choose?’ Guy asks.

‘It’s your dog, you have to decide.’

He’s lost in thought for a moment.

I look at the paintings of religious scenes on the walls. Sebastien with his arrows, Jacob beaten with sticks. ‘One of the saints, perhaps?’ I suggest.

Guy shakes his head. ‘Lancelot!’

Father Henry looks over his shoulder again, irritated by all this disturbance.

But this time, I don’t lower my eyes. The priest is commissioned by Edmund, and I don’t like him. He lacks the compassion and kindness of my own chaplain, Père Gustave, and I feel he doesn’t understand the true meaning of the Word. He never gives to the poor, while his own belly is never empty. Yet he is always ready to condemn others.

I weather his look. After all, I am the lady of this house. If I want to talk to my son, even during Holy Mass, that is my business. And to my surprise, Father Henry averts his eyes.

‘You’re quite right, Guy,’ I smile. ‘There are saints enough in the world already.’

 

*

 

Over the next few months, Lancelot grows into a medium sized mongrel of sorts, with a shiny black coat and traits of both hound and bull dog. Guy shares his food and even his bed with the dog, and although we are taught animals have no immortal soul, I believe Lancelot must know on some level that he owes his life to Guy, for he never leaves his side. Together, boy and dog roam the estate like two best friends up to no good. I can’t remember the last time I saw my son so happy, running and playing, almost like a normal child. Consequently, _I_ am happier than I have been in a long time, and I go to the chapel often to praise God and give Him thanks for such an unexpected blessing. 

Though playful and energetic outside, the dog is like a shadow whenever he is inside, very much like Guy himself. My son has learned from an early age on that being quiet and not attracting too much attention is a quality essential for survival in Gisburne Grange. That, plus the fact there are always dogs in the house, is probably the reason it takes Edmund so long to notice the subtle, but fundamental changes that have taken place.

But in the end, he does, of course.

One morning in July, Edmund wakes up with a particularly bad hangover. I go to fetch some medicin for his stomach, and when I return I find him looking out of our bedchamber window. My step falters when I notice the look in his eyes. That chaotic movement behind the iris, like a dark fire. I know it all too well. It makes my stomach knot and my hands go clammy. The fear is paralysing. Instinctively, I go over my actions. Have I done something, said something, last night or even this morning, that might have vexed him?

Without looking at me, he holds out his hand, and I have to use all of my willpower not to flinch. I somehow manage to give him the goblet. He takes a sip, screws up his face at the taste, and croaks: ‘That dog is barking again.’

I turn my head and look outside. Below, in the coutyard, Guy is playing with Lancelot. He throws a ball of cloth up, and Lancelot jumps high to snap it out of the air. When the dog waits for Guy to throw it again, he barks with excitement.

I don’t know why Guy doesn’t pay more attention. It’s not like him to be so careless. He always makes sure he’s out of Edmund’s sight when he plays with Lancelot. Especially when they’re making noise. Maybe he thought his father wouldn’t be awake so early after such a late night. Or maybe he simply got caught up in the game. After all, he is only ten years old…

Lancelot yelps again, and I see Edmund’s upper lip curl. In the courtyard, Guy puts the ball away and taps his chest. Lancelot jumps up, and Guy flings his arms around him, like he’s hugging a little child. Lancelot licks his face, his lower legs dangling and his tail wagging like crazy. Guy laughs.

A slight smile appears on Edmund’s face. It’s almost too subtle to notice. But I do, and my blood runs cold. 

Our happy days are over...


	2. Chapter 2

**Guy  
\----**

Father is back. 

He has been home for a while now, but he wasn’t really back yet. 

He sat in his big chair in the hall, walked the battlements and went out hunting, without really noticing Mother and me. He gets like that sometimes. There is no special reason. But secretly I always hope it’s because of me. Because I am improving and finally behaving the way he wants me to.

The last couple of months, I have been extra careful not to do or say anything that could irritate him. Because when I fumble, I annoy Father and he gets mad. And then the bad times happen again.

It’s not easy. I can never stop my hands from trembling when I pour his wine, even though I’ve practised it a thousand times on my own without spilling a drop. And I always forget a part when polishing his boots. I check them again and again, but he never fails to point out a dull spot.

I deserve the smacks. I need them. They teach me to do better next time. When they’re dealt out with an open hand, they’re not even that bad. Not compared to the other kind, anyway. I just wish that I would be the only one to receive them…

Yesterday, when I was playing with Lance on the floor in the hall, Father gave him a kick. Just Lance, not one of the other dogs. He didn’t say a word, he just casually kicked him as he passed by. Lance was so surprised he jumped up and yelped with fright. I cringed, for I could almost feel the sharp, burning sting of the boot in my own flank.

It’s not that Lance was in his Father’s way or anything. That’s not why it happened. Father has just started noticing me again. It’s because of _me_. Because of my clumsiness, my failure to do anything right, my being such a total dissapointment to him. I brought him back, and now all of us will suffer…

 

*

 

The bad times are almost here. I can feel it in the pit of my stomach. Like when a thunderstorm is about to hit and the sky is all dark and unsteady. It’s been building up for days now. I’m messing up. I know I’m messing up. And no matter how hard I try, it just keeps getting worse. The smacks are becoming harder again. He hasn’t taken his belt to me yet, but it won’t be long now… 

At night, I lie still on my back with Lancelot in my arms. The comforting weight of his head on my chest, the feel of his heartbeat and the soft sound of his breathing calm me down. He has it hard too, nowadays. Father yells at him and kicks him whenever he gets the chance. Lance doesn’t understand. He was always such a friendly and happy dog, but lately he’s become very moody. He stays close to me at all times and he doesn’t let other people approach him anymore. Albert says he’s getting mean, but I don’t believe him. He doesn’t know Lance like I do. How carefully he listens when I tell him my deepest secrets, how his sad, brown eyes seem to understand everything that I tell him, seem to feel everything I feel. He is my one and only friend. The closest thing to a brother I’ve ever had.

 

*

 

Mother is spending a lot of time in the chapel again. Today, I saw her wince when she turned her head too quickly to the right. And when she was cuddling her maid Mary’s baby, the child accidentally pulled Mother’s wimple out of place and I could see a great purple bruise on the spot where her throat meets her chest. You could count the fingers.

Mary didn’t say anything, of course. Nobody ever says anything. Why would they? Everybody knows what happens around here.

‘You’re a mess!’ he barks at me, when I present myself for dinner and he sees I can hardly fit into my good tunic anymore. He has been busy with the books all day, cursing and fuming at the amount of taxes that need to be paid. The scrolls are still on the table in front of him. ‘Have you grown again, you insufferable brat? Your clothes are costing me a bloody fortune!’

I bow my head. Next to me, Lancelot starts to cower. He knows the drill too.

‘Look at me when I’m talking to you!’

I do what he asks. His eyes are two black stones.

‘Forgive me,’ I manage to whisper.

‘Forgive me, who?’

‘Forgive me, my lord.’

‘You have no respect, boy,’ he hisses, his face contorted with revulsion. ‘Are those dog hairs you are covered with?’

I nod. I don’t know why I always make the same mistakes. He’s told me a thousand times not to nod. But when he’s looking at me like that, I can’t think anymore.

‘Don’t nod!’ He slaps me in the face. Hard. It almost makes me loose my footing. Lancelot yelps. I can feel his nervousness growing.

‘God’s teeth, how that mutt of yours can whine! It splits my head!’

Mother leans towards him now, whispering, in attempt to calm him down. She always makes the same mistakes as well…

He pushes her away with a brutal gesture and I can see she has to stifle a scream when he touches the painful spot on her throat.

Lancelot notices too. He yelps again.

‘I told you to keep that black devil quiet!’ And this time Father whacks me so hard I really do loose my footing. In a reflex, I grab hold of the table cloth, and all the goblets turn over. Red wine splatters over the scrolls.

‘Look what you’ve done now, you little idiot!’ He jumps out of his chair. It slides over the flagstones with a shrieking sound, like lightening that strikes. I am sure he’s going to take his belt off now.

But then, out of nowhere, Lancelot jumps in between us.

He raises his lip and growls at Father.

For a moment, the hall falls dead quiet. The servants, always embarrassed in such situations, look up at us, with pale, motionless faces. Mother seems a thing carved out of marble. And Father…

The look in his eyes has never scared me like it scares me now. There is a cold rage in it, but a sort of mad pleasure too. He’s almost smiling when he turns towards Lancelot, kicking him so hard in the soft flesh of his belly, that his yelp breaks off in mid-air.

‘Couvreur, bring me my horse-whip,’ he orders.

And then I do something I’ve never done before. I grab Lance by the scruff of his neck and pull him up, and then we both run. Away from the hall, away from Mother and Father and all those people who are like statues all the time, into the darkness of the night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Lancelot  
\-------**

‘Don’t worry, boy,’ my master says to me. ‘I won’t let him hurt you ever again. I promise.’

I don’t understand the words, but I know he is talking about the Bad One. The one who yells and kicks and hits us. I can tell because my master’s voice drops and his shoulders get tense.

The Bad One was going to harm him tonight. I could see the energy come off him like a dark, angry cloud. I tried to help my master. But I am still young and the Bad One is strong. My belly throbs where the tip of his boot dug into it. I limp as I walk here now. Still, I will never allow him to hurt my master again. I would sooner lay down my life. 

I push my nose against my master’s hand. He smiles and rubs my ears. I breathe in deeply. Above us the sky is clear and filled with a thousand stars. We follow the path past the village and then into the fields beyond. We’ve been here many times, and farther too. But this time, we go even farther than that. When we reach the woods the trees block the starlight. We can hardly see anything. My master isn’t afraid, and neither am I. We are together.

As we walk along the narrow path, the shrubs brushing against our legs, I can smell the forest all around us: the creatures that roam here, the rich black earth, the sharp green scent of the plants and trees. We walk and walk and walk, until I am convinced we are going to walk to the end of the earth. But then my master sits down and leans his shoulders against a big tree. I cuddle up beside him, and he puts his arms around me. ‘We’re never going back there again, Lance,’ he whispers. ‘We don’t need anybody. From now on, it’ll be just you and me.’

I give him a lick and wag my tail, because I like the way he speaks my name, so softly and with that little bend in tone at the beginning only he uses. And before I drift off I wish it could always be like this. Only my master and me, and the forest around us. We can take care of each other.

 

*

 

The next day, we wander deeper into the woods. There are no paths here, and I can feel my master start to hesitate more and more. We walk in circles. When we finally stop to rest, we’re not much farther than we were to begin with. I don’t know what he wants to do or where he wants to go, but I trust he’ll know what’s best for us. 

‘I’m going to make a fire, so we won’t be as cold as we were last night,’ he announces, and I wag my tail.

I look on as he starts gathering plant fluff and twigs, wondering what he’s doing. It must be important, because he gets really quiet and focused. I can hear his stomach growl. I’m hungry too. So I follow my nose and disappear into the bushes.

When I come back with the rabbit, it is almost dark and my master is still sitting in front of the pile of twigs. He looks terribly downcast. I drop the rabbit in his lap, hoping it will cheer him up.

‘Oh, you caught a rabbit!’ he says, patting me on the head. ‘You’re such a good boy, Lance.’ 

I am happy he is pleased.

‘I won’t be able to cook it, though,’ he says, pointing to the pile of twigs. ‘It turns out I am as bad at making a fire as I am at everything else.’ He hands me the rabbit back. ‘You eat it, boy. You must be starving.’

 

The meat is fresh and warm and supple, but I don’t enjoy it. My master is hungry, and he won’t take my food. I’ve failed him.

 

*

 

We lie close together, trying to keep each other warm. But it starts raining during the night, and my coat gets cold and wet. We hardly sleep. 

In the morning I get up and shake off the mud. I wag my tail expectantly, waiting for my master to decide where we are going. But he doesn’t get up. He just sits there, his arms around his knees. ‘I don’t know what to do, Lance,’ he whispers. ‘I’m hungry and cold, and I can’t find my way in the forest.’

I sit beside him and lean my head against his.

‘We can’t go to one of the villages. Everyone knows me there. And Mother would die of shame if I ever got caught stealing anything.’ His voice starts to tremble. ‘I wonder what she is doing right now. I hope she’s all right. She must be so worried about us…’

He wraps his arms around me and buries his face in my coat, and I feel his body shake as he starts to weep.

We sit like that for a long time.

 

*

 

When finally gets on his feet, the sun is high in the sky. I bark cheerfully, and follow where he leads. 

My master is very quiet. I understand. I recognise the path we are taking. We’re going back home. And that is where the Bad One is waiting. But my master needn’t worry. I will stand by him. I will protect him, if it’s the last thing I do.

‘No, Lance,’ he tells me, when we reach the forest’s edge. ‘You have to stay here.’

I wag my tail and look up at him, wondering why we’ve stopped. We’re almost home now. We have been walking all afternoon. All we have to do is cross the fields and then go through the village. 

My master crouches down beside me and runs his hands through the thick fur on my neck. ‘Please understand, boy,’ he pleads. ‘I can’t take you back with me. Not after what has happened. And I can’t stay in the forest either. I can’t take care of myself. But you can. I’ve seen you can…’

He sounds upset so I give him a lick.

‘Oh, Lance…’ he sighs, his voice unsteady. He gives me a short, tight hug. Then he turns sharp on his heels and starts walking again. 

I follow at his side, trotting to keep up with the quickened pace.

‘No,’ he orders, stopping again. ‘Stay, Lance. Stay!’ I start at his strict tone. Have I done something wrong? Confused, I look up at him, my tail wagging half-heartedly now.

‘God, how can I make you understand?’ he whispers to himself. ‘You can’t come with me, boy,’ he repeats. ‘I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.’

Something is wrong. My master is very unhappy. When he turns around and starts walking again, I stay as close to him as I can, pressing my flank against his leg. I must show I will support him, no matter what worries him. 

I feel his anguish growing. That’s why I am delighted when he starts running. He wants to play! I run after him, like I always do when we’re in the fields. 

But when he sees what I am doing, he halts again and picks up a stick from the ground. Shocked, I cringe when he throws it at me. It hits me on the flank. It doesn’t hurt, but I am so ashamed. My master is mad at me! I’ve done something to displease him. What a bad dog I am! I must go and apologise. With my ears low and my tail between my legs I trot towards him and lick his hand.

‘Please, boy,’ he moans, as if he can’t stand my touch. ‘Please stay back!’

I crawl closer, and I feel he wants to hug me again. But then he changes his mind and brusquely pushes me away. He picks up a rock. I cower to the ground. I wish I could disappear into it. How bad I am. How bad! I look up at my master, my eyes big with confusion and sorrow. What have I done to vex him so?

His face, always so full of kindness towards me, is now contorted with anger and despair. He averts his eyes, as if he can’t bear to look at me anymore. And a fear, great and terrible, wakes up inside of me.

‘Go away, you stupid dog!’ he howls, as he breaks into a sob. He hurls the rock at me with all his might. It hits me right on my hind quarters. I yelp with pain and fright.

Grief-stricken, I look at him one last time. Then I turn and run.

My life is over. 

My master doesn’t love me anymore.


	4. Chapter 4

**Guy  
\----**

I close my eyes. I feel like I’m going to throw up.

I’ve betrayed him. My best friend. My only friend. 

What a coward I am…

*

 

‘Look who’s back, tail between his legs,’ Father gloats, as I stumble into the hall.

‘Guy!’ Mother runs down from the dais. A quiet sob escapes me when she hugs me and her familiar, comforting scent surrounds me. ‘Where have you been?’ she whimpers, as she brushes a muddy strand of hair out of my face. ‘I was so worried, my son!’

‘Forgive me, Mother,’ I whisper. For I can see she has a new bruise.

‘Come over here, boy,’ Father commands.

Mother keeps her arms wrapped tightly around me.

‘Unhand him, woman,’ Father says harshly. ‘He won’t escape his punishment. And does your “Good Lord” not say: Never put off to tomorrow what you can do today?’ He grins.

‘You leave him be, Edmund!’ Mother shouts shrilly. ‘Can’t you see he’s exhausted. He needs a physician…’

A giant wave of fear rises up inside me. Mute with shock I look up at her. What is she doing? He’ll kill her! 

Father leans forward in his chair. His grin is gone. ‘When I’m finished with you, you’ll be the one needing a physician, _dear_ ,’ he promises, and something else awakens in his dark eyes.

I can feel Mother’s grip tightening as he gets up, ready to come down the dais. But then he halts and looks over our heads to something behind us.

We turn around.

My heart sinks. 

The storm is finally here. 

 

**Margaret  
\--------**

He is standing there like a knight in shining armour. Only it isn't armour, but thick, black fur. His tail wags insecurely as he looks at us. I can feel Guy freeze up in my arms.

Edmund grins again. He orders the servants to close the doors, and when the heavy locks falls in place, it’s like the audible sealing of Lancelot’s fate. He hasn’t come here to be a knight, but to be a martyr, even if he doesn’t realise it yet himself. We should have named him Jacob after all…

Couvreur steps forward with a couple of his men to get a rope around the dog’s neck, but Edmund stops him with a wave of his hand. He’s going to do it himself.

Lancelot growls and bares his teeth when Edmund approaches. The hair on his back is standing up and he barks menacingly. But he has never been a mean dog. He has no real experience at visciousness. His opponent, however, has plenty…

Edmund thunders forward, taking no heed of the warning signs the dog is giving off. Lancelot moves backwards a little, shaken by the violence of his attacker. His bark becomes more high-pitched, more alarmed. When Edmund ropes him, he bites him in the arm. 

My husband doesn’t even flinch. The madness has taken him over now, and he won’t stop untill he’s had his fill. He hits the dog between the eyes and then simply shakes him off. The bite isn’t nasty. Lancelot’s teeth have barely drawn blood. He doesn’t have the habit of hurting people. The poor creature…

When Edmund starts hauling the dog towards the doorway, Guy pulls free from my arms.

My son never complains. He barely makes a sound on the occasions when Edmund punishes him, let alone cry. But this time he begs and pleads and wails, he even clamps Edmund’s leg in utter hysteria, as my husband flings the doors back open and pulls the dog outside with him.

‘Father, please, no! I’ll do anything! Anything you ask of me!’

I throw my arms around Edmund’s shoulders, in my own attempt to hold him back. We’re three of us now: Guy on his leg, I on his neck and the dog struggling like a fish on the rope in his hands. I implore my husband. I try to reason with him.

 

**Guy  
\----**

When Mother tries to stop him, he hits her full in the face. She steps back, blinking, her expression dull all of a sudden. Scarlet blood gushes from a deep cut on the bridge of her nose. Mary and the other servants rush towards her. 

I see it all as if it’s happening through a thick fog. Father is still moving towards the stables, with Lancelot struggling and choking on the rope behind him. 

I try to block his leg with all my might, and he has to kick me off repeatedly, but it hardly slows him down. Mother follows us, supported by Mary. She is crying out Father’s name.

When we get to the stables, Father sends Couvreur for another rope. He uses this to bind Lancelot’s hind legs together. Then he strings him up on one of the rafters. Lance is hanging there, upside down and helpless. He yelps and his front legs and tail are swooshing around like he’s drunk.

Then Father takes the cane to him. Not the belt, not the whip, but the cane.

As I watch my father beat my dog to death, the pleas leave my mouth in an endless string of words, ever softer, like an enchantment or prayer that you repeat over and over again without remembering it’s meaning. After a while, they just stop, and I simply content myself by looking in Lancelot’s eyes.

There is a feeling waking up inside of me. Something different than the fear and humiliation I always feel when Father punishes me. It’s much more powerful, and I have the idea that if I were to set it free, it would be like a wave that I could ride upon, instead of one that drowns me. 

But I can’t set it free just yet. That particular feeling is for Father. And I’m watching Lance now. My Lance. My best and only friend. What I feel for him, though equally intense, couldn’t be more different to that other feeling than black is to white. I must show him. I must keep watching him…

 

**Margaret  
\--------**

I try to pull Guy away, but he just keeps looking. There’s nothing I can do or say to make him shut his eyes. The dog is suffering terribly. It’s yelps sound almost human in their anguish, and it’s dark blood splatters the stable walls. But there is nothing so frightening as watching the life go from my son’s eyes at the same rate it’s leaving Lancelot’s…

 

**Lancelot  
\--------**

I had to come back. Even now, while I am in more pain than I ever thought possible, I do not regret my decision. The Bad One was stronger than me. I always knew he would be. But it was worth it. Because my master is looking at me. And while the life is leaving my body, I can see he loves me. That he has _always_ loved me. And that is enough for me…

 

*

 

 

_**‘It was all a terrible mistake, mon père. I see that now. In a way I already knew it was, from the moment Guy came running towards me with that little ball of black wool in his arms. I should have put a stop to it then and there.’** _

_**‘But, my child, if you knew it was a mistake, why did you let him keep the dog?’** _

_**‘I don’t know. I think I just wanted him to have something to love. Something of his own. Like normal boys have. I couldn’t say no to him. Not on that day.’** _

_**‘That day?’**_

_**‘It was the twelfth of January, mon père.’** _

_**‘Margaret… You know that save from our Lord Jesus, His Holy Mother and the saints up in heaven, only the birthdays of kings and queens are celebrated…’** _

_**‘It is vanity, I confess. And it certainly isn’t a habit my parents instilled upon me. I myself know only the month I was born in, and my siblings merely the season. But I’ve always remembered the date of Guy’s birth. I can’t help it, mon père. To me, that day, however filled with conflicting emotions, will always remain the most beautiful day of my life… Sinful as it may be, I trust I shall never forget.’** _

_**‘Say three Hail Mary’s, and consider yourself forgiven, my child. After all, you have been punished enough for this vanity.’** _

_**‘You are too kind, mon père. Yet it isn’t I that have been punished the hardest…’** _

_**‘You speak of your son…’** _

_**‘The way he looked at Edmund… when it was all over and the dog swung on the rope like an unrecognisable lump of bloody flesh and matted fur... I hardly knew my own son anymore! His eyes were so cold, so full of hatred… How is such an emotion even possible, in such a young child? I have to get him away from here. Before it’s too late.’** _

_**‘What are you planning to do?’** _

_**‘I have a niece, Eleonore, that I’m very fond of. She’s married to one of the Earl of Gloucester’s younger brothers. I could write to her. Ask her if she needs a page, or if she knows anyone who does. I’d have to be very careful about it, though. I’d have to devise something to make Edmund think it’s his own idea…’** _

_**‘You’ll find a way, my child. Just let the Good Lord guide you.’** _

_**‘I put my faith in Him, as always.’** _

_**‘You’re very wise to do so. Now let us find comfort in prayer…’** _

 


End file.
